In Shining Armor

by Blair Babylon

  The GCHQ was Britain’s battalion of computer spies, the equivalent of the US’s NSA. “Oh, no need to do that, Wulfram. I’ll have my people look into it. Some of them used to be hackers. They’ll find her. The important thing is what she said.”

  “Yes, there is that,” Wulf said, “but I’m still calling Arthur.”

  They rang off a few minutes later, Dieter whispered a bunch of curses into the dark air, and then he slid back into bed with Flicka.

  She wiggled closer to him and rested her hand on his chest.

  The Fate of the Croissant

  Flicka von Hannover

  In which I am far more interested

  in the fate of the croissant

  than in the dangerous plan to save my life.

  The next morning, Flicka walked two paces behind Dieter as he wove through the Monday morning crowds that thronged the Parisian sidewalk. The people in the crowd were young, Flicka’s age and younger, which made sense because they were staying in the Latin Quarter. Many universities and conservatories made their home in the Latin Quarter, so named because university classes used to be taught in Latin.

  Flicka and Dieter had discussed their options, but speed seemed to be in their best interest. Flicka had found her rubber bands under the bed and scraped her hair back under the baseball cap again.

  Dieter ducked into a small cafe, and Flicka followed him through the maze of tiny tables to one at the very back. The walls had been hand-painted with a Mad Hatter’s vision of vines and flowers in muted tones.

  The driver from yesterday, Aaron, sat at a table with three coffees and a basket of croissants. He looked up, and his black eyes met Flicka’s gaze for an instant before he looked away.

  Dieter joined Aaron and dug into the basket of croissants, ripping apart the pastry with his fingers and chewing the hunks.

  For just a second, Flicka had a vision of herself as the croissant as Dieter tore it apart and sucked the flakes off his fingers. A sexy tremor shivered up her spine.

  It had been a long time, years, since something that a man was doing had caused that frisson of lust in her. Pierre was always attentive and kind, but a little too cool toward her. When he touched her, whether her hand in public or her body in their bed, it had felt perfunctory, or else there was a moment of stillness as he did it for any paparazzi taking a photo.

  Or just hesitation, that moment of overcoming the instinct to withdraw because you are in love with someone else.

  Flicka wondered if Pierre had felt her hesitate, too.

  Dieter noticed her watching him and looked straight into her eyes, biting into the croissant and tearing part of it away. Heat filled his gray eyes, and she got the distinct impression that he was thinking about last night, too. He licked a crumb off his lip with a swipe of his tongue before wiping away the rest with a napkin.

  Aaron sipped his coffee and studied his hands, which were large and rough around his blunt fingers. “The overnight team says that the others are already at the locations. They’ve been there for hours, rotating shifts. Everything’s in place to take her back if she tries to walk in.”

  No one had to tell Flicka that he meant the law offices. “Can’t we just call them? If there isn’t paperwork to sign, we might not have to go at all, and we might be able to do electronic signatures, anyway.”

  Dieter nodded. “We could call.”

  “Phones might be tapped,” Aaron said. “The two state agencies—”

  He meant the Secret Service agencies of Monaco and France.

  “—have very close ties. There’s almost no daylight between them. I wouldn’t trust a phone in the slightest, and if you call him at all, I’d expect that the adversaries would know your conversation and location within minutes.”

  Flicka sipped her coffee, a strong and bitter brew that filled her mouth and throat. She downed it fast.

  Dieter nodded to Aaron. “We’ll have to draw him out to a meeting. The adversaries know that Rogue is investigating the disappearance, so a contact from us would be expected. It would raise alerts but not alarms.”

  “I have four Rogues here,” Aaron said. “The other guys are expecting to snatch someone. We could set up a meeting outside the office, drag the lawyer into a van, and take him to you. They’ll be watching the other direction. There’s a chance they wouldn’t even see it happen, and even if they did, they won’t be ready for it.”

  Dieter nodded. “I like it. Do we have another location?”

  Aaron shrugged. “We can find something.”

  Listening Pays Off

  Flicka von Hannover

  People think I don’t listen to them

  because surely a princess has better things to do with her time,

  but I do.

  Flicka cleared her throat as the law office receptionist rang the phone of Monsieur Blanchard, the French attorney who had finalized her prenuptial agreement before the wedding just a few months ago.

  The phone line picked up. A man’s voice said, “Bonjour?”

  “Howdy,” Flicka said, lengthening her vowels. “My French isn’t very good. Do y’all speak English?”

  Dieter was grinning at her from where he sat across the van. He was smiling so hard that laugh lines radiated from his eyes and gathered around his mouth.

  Ever since the meeting with the lawyer had devolved from an office meeting into a kidnapping, an energy had seized him, and the wildness in his gray eyes reminded her of a mountain lion’s hunting stare.

  Over the phone, the lawyer said, “Yes, I speak English.”

  Flicka drawled, “Perfect. This is Rae Stone-von Hannover. I’m the wife of Wulfram von Hannover, one of your clients?”

  Wulfram was one of his best clients, Flicka knew. She’d seen Joachim Blanchard drop all his meetings and fly to America when Wulfram needed a private consultation on a legal matter.

  “Of course, Madame von Hannover,” Blanchard said, his voice warming. “I am at your disposal.”

  “Wulfram’s little sister has gone missin’,” Flicka said. “We’re very concerned about her, and Wulfram is coming to Paris to consult with you about the state of her prenuptial agreement.” Flicka hit the pre- part hard, like a Westerner would. “He was a-wonderin’ if you could be so kind as to make the time to meet him this mornin’?”

  “It would be my pleasure, Madame von Hannover. What time?”

  Flicka made the arrangements for Joachim Blanchard to step out of his office at the correct time.

  When she ended the call, Dieter was still grinning at her.

  From the front seat, Aaron Savoie said, “If she ever wants a job in the clandestine service, the Mossad would love to talk to her.”

  Dieter said, “Flicka, you missed your calling. You would have made a lovely spy.”

  Kidnapping

  Dieter Schwarz

  Ready.

  Go.

  Dieter sat in the back of a white delivery van, his hands clasped between his spread legs, waiting. Two other men from Rogue Security waited in the back with him, operators whom Dieter had known for years and trusted. Aaron Savoie was driving again.

  Flicka sat in the passenger seat. Her baseball cap bobbed over the back of the seat, and when she turned, he could see the edge of her blond hair glint in the sunlight under the arm of her sunglasses.

  Outside, Monday mid-morning traffic stopped and started, and pedestrians streamed over the sidewalks. Clouds intermittently blotted out the sun, turning the van darker.

  Dieter breathed slowly in through his nose and out his mouth, like a sniper dampening the adrenaline response.

  This was the problem: Dieter wasn’t nervous. As always, before an op, excitement ran through his veins like an electric charge.

  Soon.

  Flicka said, “That’s him. Blue suit, briefcase in left hand.”

  The lawyer walked along the sidewalk, obviously the same auburn-haired, white guy as in the photo on the firm’s website. Flicka had identified that particular lawyer as the
man who had put together the final draft of her prenuptial agreement, so he could explain exactly what she needed for an annulment or a divorce.

  Dieter didn’t much care how he got Flicka out of the marriage to Pierre Grimaldi, although making her a widow held a certain charm that the others lacked, preferably by some moderately slow method where Pierre could see Dieter grinning while he did it.

  But an annulment would suffice for now.

  Dieter had never killed anyone for personal revenge before, but there’s a first time for everything.

  The lawyer walked along the sidewalk, not even glancing at the white van with the sliding door idling at the curb as he approached.

  Men were easier to kidnap than women. Women look for kidnappers and rapists around them all the time, checking the back seats of their cars and not walking beside large, idling vans. All that vigilance made things more difficult.

  Men? Meh. Male targets were a piece of cake.

  One of the other Rogue Security operators slid the door open.

  The other two stepped onto the sidewalk, shielding the operation with their bodies.

  Dieter reached out, grabbed the man, and fell backward, using his own momentum to toss the guy in the van. The other two operators shoved the lawyer from behind.

  Everyone piled in.

  The door ground shut like metal dragging on concrete.

  The van lurched forward.

  The lawyer scrambled backward on the floor of the van, holding his briefcase in front of his chest as if paperwork and leather might stop a bullet.

  Only civilians thought professionals would shoot them in the heart.

  Dieter said in French, “Monsieur Blanchard, you’re three minutes early for your meeting with Rogue Security. Thank you for your punctuality.”

  Flicka turned around and hung over the arm of the passenger seat. “Hey, Joachim! I need to know what’s in that damn prenup!”

  Joachim Blanchard scrambled back farther, staring at her in shock. “Prinzessin von Hannover?”

  “You betcha, Joachim. We’re going somewhere where we can speak privately. Now, if you’ll hand the nice man your phone so he can make sure no one follows us, we’ll have you back at your office in an hour.”

  Flicka practically sparkled with energy, and Dieter thought he’d never seen her look so beautiful.

  Change of Venue

  Flicka von Hannover

  I had never felt trapped before,

  and it was only the beginning.

  Flicka sat cross-legged on the floor of the van where someone had thoughtfully thrown a rug, glaring at the paperwork.

  Aaron Savoie sat in the driver’s seat, leaning on the steering wheel and watching out the front window at the deserted alley. He had found a side alley a few streets away for them to park.

  Another guy sat in the passenger seat, surveilling, and yet another was watching out the window in the back door of the van.

  The lawyer, Joachim Blanchard, had spread paperwork over the van’s floor. He’d taken off his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves. Though his paunch impeded his movements, he was leaned over and was speaking rapidly to Flicka, pointing at various clauses within the prenuptial agreement that had been circled, highlighted, or annotated in red pen.

  Dieter sat on the couch-seat in the back of the van, frowning, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “So, there’s nothing that I can just sign,” Flicka said. After all those negotiations, all that back and forth and consultations and opinions and edits and lawyers from four countries and three US states for a year, it was all useless when she needed it.

  “I’m afraid not,” Blanchard said. “It was designed to protect both of you financially in the unlikely case of a divorce, not to facilitate one.”

  Flicka felt like scooping up all the useless paper and tossing it out the window, but she would never be so demonstrative. “Thank you for your time, Monsieur Blanchard. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “In addition, I must advise you not to seek a divorce in France.”

  “But we married in Paris.”

  “French divorce laws are very strict, a holdover from our Catholic past. The couple must live apart for at least a year before filing—”

  “A year!” Her voice betrayed her desperation. Flicka sat back, settling herself. “There’s been a problem. I can’t wait a year.”

  “That’s just for the filing. Proceedings can be lengthy.”

  Her heart hammered in her chest. “That’s entirely unacceptable.”

  “The French waiting periods and restrictions are why His Royal Highness Wulfram insisted that we include a clause stating that if a divorce were to be sought within the first five years, the state of Nevada in the United States should be designated as the venue.”

  “Where is that?” Flicka asked, her mind too upset to think properly.

  “It’s Las Vegas, madam,” the lawyer said.

  “Oh. I haven’t been there.”

  Dieter said, “It’s quite a place. In the West. Only a few hours from Wulfram’s house.”

  The lawyer piped up, “Divorce requirements there are quite minimal. As the prenuptial agreement specifies the venue and division of property, it might even be completed in absentia of the other party.”

  “So I don’t have to even tell him?”

  “Oh no. He must be notified, even from Nevada. He could conceivably contest it, though that would invoke further considerations and penalties if he loses, which he probably would. It’s hard to contest a divorce these days. Hopefully, Prince Pierre Grimaldi will see reason and allow the divorce to proceed uncontested, which is best for all parties involved.”

  Flicka doubted that would happen. Pierre had good reason to believe he would lose his Catholic throne if he were divorced.

  Maybe he should convert to the Anglican religion. The Anglicans had centuries of precedent that divorcees could take a throne.

  “The main problem, of course, is residency,” the lawyer continued. “You must establish that you are a resident of Nevada, and this generally takes six weeks.”

  Horror. “Six weeks!”

  “It’s considerably better than the years that would be required in France.”

  She stared at the useless, stupid prenup in her hands. “I was hoping that I could be done with this somehow.”

  “I’m afraid not, Your Royal Highness.”

  “Please, call me Flicka, or Ms. von Hannover, or anything but that.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. von Hannover.”

  “No apologies, just find a way for me to divorce him right now. Or annul the marriage. There’s really no way to invoke an annulment?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. von Hannover. The time period for that has passed, and neither of you can state that you were mentally incapacitated for the entire engagement. You planned the wedding for over a year. It would be exceedingly difficult to make a case for an annulment in that situation. It would be faster to file and obtain a divorce.”

  Flicka’s eyes burned, and the sides of the paper were sharp in her hands.

  He said, “I would suggest that you proceed to Nevada and establish residency. To that end, as you or Ms. Stone-von Hannover or whoever called my office requested, I have a clean printout of the prenuptial agreement and an electronic copy.” He produced a thick stack of paper and a plastic bag with a tiny USB drive from his briefcase. “Take both copies for reference. You may need them.”

  “Thank you, Joachim. One of the other men will drive you back to your office.” Flicka knew the plan was for one of Dieter’s Rogue Security men to drive him around the block and then to order a taxi for him.

  The lawyer climbed stiffly out of the van, flexing his knees and arms for a few moments, and he walked with one of the guys toward the far corner.

  Flicka sat for a moment. “Okay, so now I need to figure out how to get into the US without my damn passport.”

  “I’ll help you,” Dieter said.

  “How? Smuggle me over the Can
adian border in a flour sack?” She’d seen that sort of thing done in movies.

  “We’ll figure something out.”

  “I just have to think. Maybe Wulfram has an old copy of my passport or there might be one in the deposit boxes or in a safe at Schloss Marienburg, or maybe he could call one of his friends in the government because he negotiates EU trade things so he could help get a copy from a German consulate or embassy, but I can’t contact Wulfie because damn Pierre and his threats.”

  “Durchlauchtig—”

  “I don’t have the money for a plane ticket. Me, Her Serene Highness Friederike Marie Louise Victoria Caroline Amalie Alexandra Augusta, Prinzessin von Hannover und Cumberland, Princess of Great Britain and Ireland, Duchess of Brunswick-Lüneburg, etc., and I couldn’t use a credit card even if I had one because Pierre’s Secret Service would trace it. I didn’t even have any credit cards in that stupid little purse, you know. I don’t have enough money for bus fare, let alone a plane ticket to the United States.”

  He said, “I think I have a way. Let’s just go to the airport, and we’ll get there.”

  “Right now?” She shook her hands. “Of course, we should go now. Of course, we should. I mean, we just sort-of kidnapped my lawyer a little, so sure, let’s flee the continent without the required identification, the visas or paperwork or passports, or money for a plane ticket.”

  Dieter grinned at her, and that spark of excitement snapped in his gray eyes like lightning in a thunderstorm. “Sometimes, you are so very German, my Durchlauchtig. Leave it to the neutral Swiss man to think of a third way.”

  Flicka glanced up as a man walked in front of the van and pressed his palms to the hood.

  She knew him.

  Panic shot through her nerves.

  “Dieter—”